


Anything in the World

by veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom



Category: Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Childhood Sweethearts, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drew does cute slouchy evil redhead stuff, Evil Cuddling, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Peter Hayes, POV Second Person, Peter Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:03:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7346188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom/pseuds/veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Peter can't fall asleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything in the World

You stare intently at the ceiling. You're not sure what time it is, but it has to be late, since you're surrounded by nothing but darkness and silence. Your eyes have long since adjusted, to the point where you can make out each little crack in the concrete above. You know you should be asleep, but something woke you up, and now you feel empty. You still have no idea what you want, yet you know you have to want something worth missing sleep for.

You inhale deeply as the sinking feeling in your chest grows stronger. You know exactly what—who you want. You know exactly who you want. Sighing, you turn over in your bed and shut your eyes, just trying to ignore it. You need sleep. But it feels like someone's emptying a cage of sparrows directly into your stomach, to the point where you can't even swallow.

You shift onto your side and open your eyes again to see him in the bed next to yours, as normal. Guilt plaguing you, you watch his stomach rise and fall. He looks so peaceful this way, flame-colored hair draped over his forehead and his pink lips, pinker than any other boy's, curved into a little smile as he dreams something happy.

You discipline yourself for the thought. You aren't weak enough to love. You are strong and you are brave and you depend on no one. You do not want this.

Yet your stomach keeps telling you that you do. Self-control seems to have left your vocabulary. You want him shivering under your touch. You have given in to your desire for a man—

No, not a man. Few men you've ever seen have done to you what he does. You have not given in to your desire for a man, but instead your desire for him, and you have done this many times before. You kissed him when you were ten, when you two were hanging out alone. You remember that first kiss well. Molly had fallen ill, and you'd both gone out to do the typical things you did.

But the difference between a typical day and that one was that you both were alone together. You remember that you were spray painting an older brick building, and he was standing nearby, admiring you with those milky blue doe eyes he does so well. You'd resisted for years now, telling yourself that it was wrong, asking yourself what Molly would think if you gave in. Yet in that moment, you felt so free. It was you, and it was him, and there was no one beside you but yourself.

Before you could correct yourself, remind yourself once more that you were a bully and a warrior and a man and that you had no time for love, no personality for commitment, that any relationship you would ever enter would do nothing but ruin those you struggle to make yourself care about, you heard yourself drop the can with a clunk, and then felt yourself stroking the silk of his black and white suit and pressing your lips against his oh-so-innocently.

That led to more as the years passed, as you both realized that adolescence had defined and honed your feelings. If he hadn't left your heels before, he was practically glued to you now. You both had girl after girl on the side to prove your masculinity, perhaps even just misguided attempt after misguided attempt to cure yourselves of each other. Yet you always came back to him.

Or did he come back to you? You ponder the question. He was and is practically obsessed with your every movement.

 _That doesn't matter now_ , you think as you force yourself back into the present. He still lies there, but now he has rolled over to face you. His smile is bigger than ever, like he knows you've been watching him. Maybe he does.

You sigh quietly and force yourself to push the sheets to your hips, then your knees. You recall how warm it is snuggled up to him, you running your hands through his carrot hair and him slid up side-by-side to you. The cold air motivates you to reach him as fast as possible.

You pull up the sheet by its corners and gently set it beneath your heels, to avoid awakening anyone. The last thing you need is someone seeing you squirming around at night like a child. Or worse, someone seeing you sharing his bed, holding him, actually feeling love for someone other than yourself. You can't look weak, for that is nothing more than a death sentence in Dauntless.

You gingerly slide to the edge of the mattress, moving slowly to minimize the creaking noise produced by the shifting of your weight. You should be looking around for anyone lifting up their heads, anyone sober and attentive. But you worry that if you remove your eyes from him, he will disappear and be gone forever.

Each cautious step brings you closer to his heat, his unconditional and unending love. He loves you more than he loves himself, you realize, more than you love yourself. The thought is confusing. But the blinding white of his sheets, so close to you now, is too much to bear. You sink down next to him as lightly as possible and drape his blankets to cover both of you. You feel a smile form, something that seldom happens for such simple, peaceful reasons.

Wriggling up behind him, you quickly press inward until your chest meets his back. The feeling transcends language, transcends mental processing. Your arms wrap tightly around him, and you can feel where your knees meet his calves.

You hear a deep yawn. He's been awake the entire time. Your heart lurches high into your throat.

He tries to turn toward you, and you loosen your grip on him so that he can roll over. He blinks a few times, then smiles back, freckled face pink and innocent. "Good night, Peter," he whispers, cuddling into your chest. "I love you."

You reach in to stroke his hair, and at that very moment, you wouldn't give him up for anything in the world.


End file.
